The Captain of All Pleasures

by Kresley Cole

  I'm going to kill those beasts, Nicole thought grimly as she pounded her head against her forearm on the desk. When she sat up, she blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes, and looked down at her desk, presently littered with charts. She glared at all the numbers and equations fogging together.

  She couldn't think, much less concentrate on plotting a course to impress her father. She didn't expect to when the livestock in the hold had been shrilling for a quarter of an hour.

  Of course, this would happen when no one was on board to shush the puling animals. Lassiter had gone to a meeting he'd set up through the woman from the tavern, and nearly all of the crew were out enjoying their liberal shore leave.

  The sounds dimmed. Holding her breath, she inwardly commanded their silence for the rest of the night. Just when she picked up her pen again, the animals erupted once more. Disgusted, she threw it down. Why weren't the two crewmen who'd drawn guard duty tonight seeing to this annoyance?

  Probably asleep on the job. She would never fall asleep on the job.

  Nicole stretched her arms high above her head before rising from the bolted-down chair in her cabin. Although she wasn't going very far, she grabbed her woolen cloak and pulled it tight.

  She trotted with her clanging lamp toward the companionway, trying not to breathe too deeply of the sluggish low-tide air, but she couldn't suppress a yawn or two. She thought of the other reason she'd gotten so little accomplished this whole day--her exhaustion in the face of a sleepless night. She'd tossed and turned with sensual dreams, the sheets tangling between her legs, the fine cloth of her nightdress growing too bristly against sensitive skin.

  In this dream, the man who set upon her wasn't a faceless stranger. It was Sutherland.

  She reminded herself that he'd largely influenced her father's misguided decision about her sailing. And that the race would pit her father against this man again, making bad blood worse. So why could she still feel his warm, strong fingers firm on her wrist?

  Shaking her head, Nicole drove him from her mind yet again. She did not have time for distractions.

  At the companionway, she scanned the deck for the guards. Unable to see anyone to reprimand, she swung effortlessly down the steep, narrow steps as she had a thousand times before. When the light touched the animals, the insouciant goat merely swung its head toward her. But the wide-eyed pigs and sheep were frightened and heartily announced that fact in the echoing confines of the hold.

  She puckered her lips and cooed, but they were spooked as they were when a bad storm was brewing. Muttering a curse, Nicole set her lamp on the floor and reached for the shovel to throw them more feed.

  Her arm halted in midair.

  The light from the lantern faintly illuminated a shape crouched on the floor, a huddled form partially obscured by one of the mighty timber ribs of the ship.

  A man?

  Nicole pushed her hair out of her eyes and up more securely in her hood as she squinted to make out the sailor's identity. Whoever he was, he needed to learn that he shouldn't be down here at odd hours without a good reason. Even more, if he'd upset the animals, then he should have made some effort to calm them.

  "Just what do you think you're doing down here, sailor?" she demanded, each word she spoke underscored by the solid click of her boots as she marched toward him.

  But as she neared him, something inside her, some oftignored instinct, told her to proceed warily.

  He didn't answer, just rose and turned to her. Her breath leached out in a hiss.

  The man bore a purplish, bubbled scar that curved over his forehead and down through a vacant eye socket. A foul odor emanated from him. It was the smell of gin, refuse, and...blood. She gagged, her eyes watering as she swallowed to keep from retching.

  After several shallow breaths, her wits returned. This couldn't be one of her father's men. Which meant...which meant that she was in trouble. Again.

  The play of emotions over her face must have amused the scarred man, because he grinned, revealing teeth that resembled little chunks of charred wood. She couldn't stop the widening of her eyes, or the hasty step back.

  With her next step, she drew a deeper breath, regretting it immediately as his reeking form moved toward her. She managed to say, "Carry on, sailor. M-my apologies."

  For a second, then two, she awaited his reaction. How could she attract the guards' attention when the animals obviously hadn't? Could she outrun him? She was in trousers--she might be able to escape to the deck if he came after her. She should try...she really should move.

  Just as she spun toward the companionway, the man called out, "Don't think we'll be wantin' 'er to go nowhere, Clive."

  Appearing out of the shadows before her came a hulking second man, a man she sensed was even more dangerous than the first.

  Two of them, in the hold. With her.

  Nicole gaped at this new man's equally alarming appearance. She found herself morbidly fascinated by his pie-plate face, round and stamped down except for the bulbous protrusion of his lips. She watched him much like a bystander witnessing a terrible carriage accident, mouth parted, too horror-struck to move.

  An instant later, the will to defend herself rose up, and her eyes darted all around to spy out a weapon. But she wouldn't be able to grab the hold's shovel or pitchfork before either of the men could get to her.

  Then she spied the haphazard arrangement of tools on the floor beside the second man. The bastards were here to sabotage them! Fury spiked through her before settling like a weight on her chest, but she bit it back and said, "I am sorry for interrupting whatever repairs you're doing down here. I'll be going back up to my cabin...so good night."

  "You ain't goin' nowhere, lady," the man called Clive said through those beefy lips. "I think you're goin' to stay with us and keep me 'n' Pretty comp'ny for a spell." His voice was guttural and his leering eyes scoured her body. Revulsion racked her. She flexed and closed her fingers as she fought for control. "You didn't think I'd let a comely piece of puss like you leave without me givin' you a good toss, did you?"

  "Now, 'old on, Clive," Pretty protested from where he'd stopped, not five feet from her side. "The boss didn' say nothin' about tuppin' nobody tonight." He scratched intently in his greasy hair as he suggested, "Let's me 'n' you finish up 'ere afore we get caught, 'n' then we'll take care of 'er."

  "Bugger you, Pretty," Clive said as he reached for the front of her cloak. A panicked screech burst from her lips. She kicked out at him. The stiff toe of her boot planted into his knee before she dashed around him, narrowly shimmying past his enraged lunge.

  "Help! Somebody help me!" she screamed just once before she reached the steps. She knew no one was coming to her rescue. Tonight her survival was in her own hands.

  Fast as Nicole flew to the stairs, the big brute was faster, and she managed just three steps up the companionway before he leapt for her legs. Catching her ankles in a manacle-like grip, he snatched them back viciously. She felt weightless for a fraction of a second before she crashed against the stairs in a jarring bounce. Stunned, she scarcely registered the pain as the wood shoved into her stomach and chest, wrenching the air out of her lungs.

  Over her violent gasps, she dimly heard the scarred man yelling at them over the din of screaming animals. The pain ebbed and her sight blurred...until Clive hauled her back down, dragging her limp body toward him, one hand over the other snaking higher up her leg.

  Fight, damn it, fight! With a hidden reserve of strength, she kicked forcefully, her heel catching the man squarely in his foul, soft mouth.

  Blood spurt. He howled in pain, yet managed to keep one hand fisted around her leg. Another furious kick connected, loosening his hold, and she pulled at the stairs above with all the fading power left in her arms.

  She'd broken free. She'd--

  "I'll shoot you if you try that again." The words accompanied the rasp of a pistol hammer being cocked.

  She craned her head back over her shoulder. The scarred man had
a gun trained on her. Shaking, she looked back down at Clive, who rose to his feet and staggered toward her, his bloody face split into a gruesome sneer.

  One glance into his pebbly eyes, seeing the frenzied rage directed at her, decided her fate in a flash.

  Ignoring the gun pointed at her back, she sprang to her feet and bolted up the stairs, pumping her arms for speed, knowing she was too weak...too slow.

  Halfway up, she felt rather than heard the click of the hammer. A shot roared through the shadowy hold.

  Chapter 2

  D erek Sutherland was an angry man.

  Those who knew him well, and they were few, feared he wasn't many years away from becoming a bitter man. The events of the last four years did seem to guarantee his descent in that direction.

  Late on this cold and bleak night, in addition to being angry, he was drunk. As was usual.

  In truth, only one thing was out of the ordinary. He'd begun sobering up, an inconvenience he hoped to remedy soon in a nearby tavern. Lengthening his strides, he weaved his way through the broken crowds that populated the docks. He made his way easily even with the influx of people the race had drawn, since most wisely gave him a wide berth when he came near.

  This wasn't only because he was a large man, standing a head taller than most out here. Nor was it that his hard face evinced the anger he wrestled with more and more each day. It was because he'd become a man who had nothing to lose, making him the most dangerous kind. And it showed.

  He wasn't unaware of his effect on those around him--for years it'd been this way. In fact, only a handful of people didn't back down from him. One of whom was Amanda Sutherland, his mother--which was unfortunate, he thought, as he recalled this latest meaningless evening at the Sutherland London town house.

  He'd been about to leave for the night when she'd summoned him into her deliberately feminine sitting room. He didn't have to guess what course the conversation would take and only wondered that it had taken her this long to approach him yet again.

  When he sauntered in, he'd forgone planting a kiss on her offered cheek, and ignored the brief flash of hurt in her eyes. He moved straight to the least-delicate chair facing her and settled uncomfortably in the small seat.

  Crossing his long legs at the ankles, Derek drawled, "I can't imagine why you would want to see me, Mother."

  She pursed her lips at that, but after painstakingly smoothing her crisp skirts, she spoke evenly. "Will you stop by your club tonight?"

  He laughed at her ludicrous question, but the sound was foreign and grated. He grew silent and fought to rein in the formidable temper that had helped bring his life to the low point he currently enjoyed.

  Before he answered, he leaned forward in his seat to glare a warning. "I'll be damned if we do this again. You know bloody well that I am not going to the club or to any of your balls or soirees or anywhere else I might have to see or hear of...of my situation," he snapped, his face tense with resentment.

  Though she should have been accustomed to it by now, his mother had looked startled at his quickening fury. Nevertheless, she said, "You have a responsibility to your title, Derek. It's time, past time, you had an heir."

  "Grant's my heir," he'd said, naming his brother.

  "But a son--"

  "Cannot and will not happen."

  His baleful tone hadn't even slowed her. No, she took a fortifying breath and proceeded to drag them both through the same old argument. She never missed a chance--they had it every time he was in London.

  For what had to be half the night, he'd listened to her rant and plead, changing tactics with expert precision. Finally, he'd grown so furious he'd shot out of his chair to leave, intending to stay away from his family until he sailed.

  But she wouldn't let it go.

  "So which route are you sailing this time? China? South America?" she questioned before he could escape to the hall.

  Reluctantly he turned back toward her, making his face cold as dead ash. "London to Sydney."

  "Sydney?" she replied with mock excitement. "Oh, yes, Queen Victoria's Great Circle Race. I read about it in the paper some time back. How patriotic of you." Her brittle smile belied the sentiment of her words. "And how utterly convenient to find yet another voyage that goes so far afield."

  Derek couldn't disagree.

  She studied his face. "There and back should take you how long?"

  "Half a year." Then, seeing the disappointment in her flinty gray eyes, eyes so like his own, he'd once again turned toward the door.

  As expected, nothing had been resolved. But her parting shot kept running through his mind: "I often wonder if you go to sea because you love it...or because you are a base coward."

  Christ, he needed a drink.

  What did that woman want him to do? And his brother Grant, who'd regarded him with awkward commiseration as Derek stormed past him and out the door? Everyone involved knew he could find no out, no possible redemption. He understood it, and damn it, he behaved accordingly.

  He wondered vaguely what his mother and brother would say if they learned that something had finally pierced through the weary anger that clung to him. That a young dockside whore with soulful, dark eyes had provoked the earl to a pulse. A whore in boys' clothing working the Mermaid, of all places--

  Several shrieks coming from ahead interrupted his thoughts. Curious to see what had unhinged the mob tonight, he made his way to a row of canvas-wrapped crates at the side of the walk and stepped up to get a better view. Under a canopy of large, cheaply milled hats and gathered heads, a small lad sped down the quay, running clumsily into several outraged women loitering about. With a quick lift of his chin, Derek made out two rough men beyond, plowing through the crowd after him.

  Derek jumped down lightly and, with a brush of his hands, continued on his way. That boy had riled the wrong people, he mused indifferently. Those men were cutthroats--the kid didn't have a chance against one of them, let alone two. Even knowing this, he vowed to look the other way, as every other person on the docks would. He was no different from the worst sorts out here on this night.

  He would just keep walking. Forget about interfering.

  But when the boy barreled right past him, Derek spun around to see him get tangled in an old hempen rope coiled on the walk. The lad sailed forward, arms careening uselessly, before plunging to a stop on the slushy ground. Shaking his head, as if he couldn't quite believe he'd fallen, the boy raised himself on his arms but couldn't seem to manage his legs.

  What was left of Derek's withered conscience demanded a rescue, but he easily quelled the thought. He wasn't the man he used to be. Besides, he could already see the sign of the tavern where he'd been heading. So close to a night of mind-numbing vice...

  Judging by the sounds coming from ahead, the men were closing in.

  "Watch yerself, ye bastard!" a flamboyantly dressed woman wailed as she swung her cloth bag against one of the men's heads. When he turned around to face her, she grew silent, frozen, then loped off into the night. Derek understood why--the man looked as if he were fresh from a nightmare.

  Before he could stop himself, Derek turned to catch another look at the kid. Still valiantly trying to pull himself up, to get his little boots to catch a foothold on the grimy walk. Strangely, Derek had to fight the feeling of pity, a feeling increasingly unfamiliar to him.

  He stalled for only a second more. The boy was probably a cutpurse and deserved whatever punishment those men handed out. Determined to turn away, he shook his head and walked on.

  An affirmation, he knew, of just how big a bastard he had become.

  Like a separate thing living in her, Nicole's fear grew, choking her throat. She strained to scramble up, but in her heart, she didn't know how much longer she could go on. Every movement shot pain through her exhausted limbs. Every choppy breath made her lungs burn as though she inhaled fire.

  This wasn't how she wanted to go out--not sinking into the filth of a London street waiting to be pluck
ed up by Clive.

  I want to go down swinging. She bit back tears of pain and frustration, but before she was even conscious of it, a sob arose and spilled forth on a breath.

  "Bloody hell," a deep-voiced man grated from just behind her. A string of imaginative cursing followed; all at once she was lifted up and tucked into the side of some exasperated, angry giant. As he started toward a forgotten crack between two tea warehouses, shock rose up to claim her again; she couldn't even tell herself to fight because he wasn't one of those men.

  Had she found a savior from the docks? Not likely, yet the man held her gently.

  "Don't be afraid," he advised sharply. "I won't hurt you."

  The man holding her had the clipped, precise speech of a gentleman, and her own instincts weren't screaming danger in his presence. She was strangely unafraid, especially considering that she'd just been shot at, and barely escaped with her life. Shot at. On her own ship, a bullet whizzing past her ear. Splinters exploding all around her head...

  That memory crystallized her thoughts. She had little apprehension of this man, but didn't want to be a sitting duck. No time to explain to him why--she needed to keep herself safe. She twisted in his arm and began kicking, drumming her boots against the backs of his legs.

  "I'm trying to help you. Son of a--will you stop?"

  Her blows had no effect. Thinking her attack would enrage him, she hunched her head between her shoulders to prepare for a slap or worse.

  Yet he calmly redoubled his efforts to restrain her. He was easily twice her weight, huge, with unbudgeable arms. He could subdue her with laughable effort. But even as she fought, she got the strange impression that he tried very hard not to hurt her.

  "Calm down! Damn it, you're like a greased cat," he uttered in a low, aggravated voice.

  As she twisted to get free, she managed a fleeting look at her would-be protector. Recognition hammered past her disbelief. Even as she clawed and squirmed, her foggy mind grasped that the man holding her was none other than Captain Derek Sutherland.

  If she weren't sure she was about to be killed, she might have laughed. Out of the frying pan, and I dive for the fire.